


Walk Into My Parlour

by eatingcroutons



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, HYDRA Trash Party, Honestly pretty much everything about Pierce is Highly Dubious, M/M, Power Imbalance, S.H.I.E.L.D. Internal Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8753500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatingcroutons/pseuds/eatingcroutons
Summary: Written for the trashmeme prompt: Steve/Pierce - Praise Kink Manipulation

  Pre-WS Steve/Pierce, where Steve has no idea his sexual partner is HYDRA.


  Pierce is the older man, the guy who's seen everything Steve missed, the guy who knows how the world works - plus he's charming and he's still not bad looking even for his age. So when he praises Steve, Steve laps it up, shrugging it off as depression/insecurity/inexperience even though he feels weird when it all gets darker, because all the experience he's got is jerking off and thinking of Bucky when he was a kid.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to continue this fic someday, but realistically I doubt it will ever happen. I know where I wanted everything to go, and I have bits and pieces of later scenes written, but it's been about a year since I did any work on any of them. I figured I may as well put what I've got so far on AO3, because I did at least make it to the first bit of porn.
> 
> Thanks go to my wonderful betas who were just as determined as I was to make Pierce as terrible a human being as possible: [Coffee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestainanalyst/pseuds/coffeestainanalyst), [Cyan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingCyan/) and [Sevvie](http://oxytocinwanted.tumblr.com/).

"You'll want to get Grayson on side."

"I'm sorry?"

The man who steps up to Steve's right is a couple of inches shorter than him – and _old_ , is his first, uncharitable thought. But despite the lines on his face and the white leeching into his strawberry blond hair, the man's expression is bright and alert. He glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye.

"He'll be third from the right – ex-STRIKE. Gets a bit touchy about his old unit." Steve's confusion must show on his face because the man's lips quirk. "You've been doing a wonderful job out there; they just want to make sure you're not taking the rest of the team out of their depth. We can't all be super soldiers."

Before Steve can put together a reply the doors in front of them hiss open to reveal one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s conference rooms: starkly modern, with darkened floor-to-ceiling windows behind a gleaming black table. Half a dozen men and women in dress uniforms are seated around it. Sure enough, third from the right is a man with the lean musculature and hard expression of someone who never really left the field.

"Captain Rogers." Fury is standing at the head of the table to Steve's left.

"Sir."

"Mister Secretary. I wasn't aware you'd be joining us." Fury's tone would never betray anything as obvious as surprise, but there's a note of respect in it that makes Steve perk up and take notice. The man from the hallway steps up beside him again, slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

"Oh, you know me. Like to keep my finger on the pulse, see what the old guard is saying about the new. I'm sure Captain Rogers will be particularly interested in hearing from Agent Grayson." All eyes turn to Steve; he straightens and looks Grayson in the eye.

"It's an honor to serve with STRIKE, sir. I hope we can live up to the example you set." Grayson holds his gaze for a long moment then nods sharply.

"Well gentlemen, if you could take your seats..." Steve takes the empty chair in front of him as Fury begins outlining the agenda for STRIKE's evaluation. The secretary – whoever he is – walks around to a chair on the far side of the table, unbuttoning his suit jacket and taking a pair of glasses out of his inside pocket. He leans back as he puts them on – and when he catches Steve watching him, he winks.

~

The next forty minutes feel like hours, as Steve is subjected to a thorough grilling about every STRIKE op he's led these last three months. The feedback is generally positive but it's still a relief when the discussion moves on to budgetary issues. He tries to keep half an ear on the conversation, but he can only stand so much bureaucratic squabbling. Soon enough he finds his attention drifting.

He sneaks another peek at the Secretary: still leaning back casually in his chair, but he's picked up one of the briefing papers from the table and is looking it over. With the man's attention otherwise occupied, Steve takes the chance to get a proper look at him. He's handsome despite his age; the lines on his face add weight and dignity to his strong features, and his tousled hair is still thick and full despite the white at his temples. His light gray suit is clearly cut to fit.

Steve is vaguely aware that the argument around the table seems to be picking up heat, but doesn't properly tune back in until the Secretary sits up in his chair, dropping the briefing paper back on the table.

"Perhaps you could explain to Captain Rogers which of his equipment he should do without on his next mission?"

The rest of the room falls silent.

Steve scrambles to rewind the last few seconds of conversation for context – something about special treatment and equipment costs? – but nobody seems to be paying attention to him anyway. All eyes are on the Secretary, and on the man two seats to Steve's left, who's now glowering across the table.

"I'm not suggesting we –"

"Then please, Commander, what _are_ you suggesting?" The Secretary's voice is soft, but he speaks in the tone of a man long used to unhesitating obedience. The Commander places his palms flat on the table.

"I'm suggesting – _sir_ – that STRIKE receives a disproportionate amount of the Operations budget –"

"STRIKE faces a disproportionate amount of risk, compared to the rest of the Operations division. Isn't that right, Agent Grayson?"

Stern-faced as ever, Grayson nods. "37% higher risk of casualty than the S.H.I.E.L.D. average. STRIKE takes the jobs no-one else can."

"I hope you're not implying that my agents are in some way less dedicated –"

As the argument breaks out in earnest the Secretary leans back again, slipping his glasses back into his pocket. This time when he catches Steve's eye there's nothing as obvious as a wink, but his eyes are glittering and the corners of his mouth twitch up just a little. Steve looks down and pretends to adjust the grip on his pen to hide his own smile.

~

They wrap up barely an hour later. Steve stands to shake Grayson's hand as he walks out, then hangs back to talk to Fury, but the Secretary gets there first. He and Fury exchange a firm handshake while Steve loiters behind his seat, still trying to figure out who on earth the man is.

"So Nick, seems your boy is doing better than any of us hoped." The Secretary smiles as he slips his hands into his pockets.

"I hope you're not thinking of poaching him, sir." Steve frowns – there are very few people that Nicholas Fury calls _sir_.

"You're never going to forgive me for Sarkissian, are you? She's twice as effective where she is now and you know it."

"Still don't appreciate you taking my people." Fury raises an eyebrow. "Appreciate your help today, though. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Other than making sure Greaves didn't get away with cutting STRIKE's budget? I came to meet the good Captain." The Secretary turns to speak across the table. "Captain Rogers, would you care to join me for lunch?"

Steve blinks, caught off-guard. "Sir?"

"Rogers, this is Secretary Alexander Pierce. I don't think you two have met."

 _Pierce_. Steve resists the urge to snap to attention, and it takes him a second to realize that Pierce is offering his hand. He quickly walks over to shake it.

"It's an honor, sir. I've heard a lot about you." Pierce has a good, solid grip and a warm smile.

"The honor's mine, Captain. My father was in the 101st. And I wasn't exaggerating when I said you've been doing better than we could have hoped – your work has been a real gift."

Steve hopes the warmth he feels doesn't show on his face. "Just doing my job, sir."

"And you're doing it extremely well. Come on, I'm serious about lunch. My treat." Steve realizes he's still holding Pierce's hand, and lets go to turn to Fury.

"Director...?"

Fury waves him away. "Go. We can debrief later. But don't you dare accept any job offers."

~

A sleek black car is waiting for them when they exit the Triskelion. They sit in silence for the drive, and barely ten minutes later they're pulling up in front of an ordinary-looking restaurant in downtown D.C. There's nothing particularly memorable about the interior either: painted brick walls with bland art prints hung at regular intervals, tables neatly laid with silverware on white tablecloths, smart but not ostentatious. Empty apart from a couple holding hands across a table by the front window.

Pierce heads straight for a table in the back corner, shucking the jacket of his three-piece suit and hanging it over the back of his chair. Steve waits for him to sit before taking the chair opposite.

"Try the strip steak," Pierce says without so much as glancing at the menu. "You won't regret it."

"I'll... trust your judgement, sir."

Pierce grins, lopsided. "That's what I like to hear." He waves a waitress over and orders for both of them – veal for himself, apparently – then asks for a bottle of what Steve can only assume is some fancy variety of wine. "I hope you don't mind skipping starters; I've got the WSC in the afternoon."

"The – right. Of course." The _World Security Council_. For a moment the whole situation feels incredibly surreal. Steve wonders if he'll ever get used to the fact that this is his life: Wake up, go to work, get taken out to lunch by one of the most powerful men in the world. He's not even sure why he's here.

"Ah, here we go." Pierce looks up as the waitress reappears in what must be record time, holding a bottle of deep red wine. "You drink much wine, Captain? No, that's fine, I'm sure it'll be perfect." He waves the waitress away and takes the bottle himself to pour them each a glass.

"I – not since the serum. There's not much point in me drinking alcohol these days."

Pierce tuts as he sets the bottle back on the table. "You don't drink wine like this for the alcohol content. Here"– he raises his glass for a toast –"to a better future."

~

The wine does taste incredible. They exchange small talk for a while, Steve politely following Pierce's lead. When Pierce mentions a daughter about Steve's age he really hopes this doesn't turn out to be one of Natasha's matchmaking schemes. But no, Pierce goes on to tell him about how Fury saved her life in Bogotá, made the right call in a tough situation – is _that_ what this is about, then? Steve hasn't exactly been shy about letting Fury know when he disagrees with his methods.

The waitress eventually returns with their meals, which look and smell amazing – and as he unfolds his napkin to spread across his lap Steve can no longer contain his curiosity.

"Sir, was there something in particular you wanted to talk to me about?"

Pierce puts his fork down, chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of veal. Swallows it down with a sip of wine.

"Who do you think I am?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"What am I to you – bureaucrat? Politician? Pain in the ass? What have you heard about me?" Pierce leans back in his chair, clasping his hands together and resting them in his lap. His eyes never leave Steve.

 _Is this a test?_ Steve puts his own fork and knife down, mulling over how to respond.

"I've heard you're responsible for bringing home more American prisoners of war than anyone else alive."

"Me? Rescue operations seem like more your kind of thing." Steve can't quite figure out whether to take that as a joke – other than a slightly raised eyebrow Pierce's expression stays neutral.

"I meant – I've heard you're a diplomatic genius. That you always know who to contact, how to negotiate, which strings to pull to keep the guys on the ground safe."

"Safe? Have you any idea how many lives have been lost during ops I've signed off on?"

Steve frowns. He's not sure whether this is a test or some kind of word game, but he's got no patience for games. He considers his next words.

"I know that the right decisions are often difficult ones. I know that saving some lives can mean sacrificing others." The memory of a train in the Alps is suddenly far too vivid, and Steve swallows, pushes it away. "I believe that you've always done what's best for this country, sir."

Pierce finally breaks into a smile, slow and genuine. "That's a more nuanced perspective than most people would expect from Captain America."

Steve smiles back at the compliment, but can't help a rueful twist of his lip. "Sometimes I wonder just how much Captain America and I have in common."

Pierce laughs out loud, lines crinkling around his eyes, and Steve finds himself relaxing a little and grinning himself. He takes a mouthful of steak and it tastes absolutely exquisite; as Pierce starts efficiently slicing his veal into strips Steve busies himself with his own meal. For a while they eat in comfortable silence.

Halfway through his second glass of wine Pierce asks, "Tell me, Captain. How are you fitting in with STRIKE?"

So this _is_ a recruitment attempt? "Sir, if this is about... I'm really best suited to fieldwork. It's where I can do the most good."

"Oh I don't disagree. You're phenomenal in the field – dad's stories don't begin to do the real Captain America justice." Pierce's gaze is steady as he takes a sip of wine; Steve feels warmth swell in his chest and looks down, tries to stick his fork through a bit of salad leaf that's stubbornly plastered itself to his plate. "But we both know that's not the whole story. The greatest soldier the world has ever seen – that's not you at all, is it?"

Steve frowns. "I'm not sure what you mean by that."

"Captain – Steve. Can I call you Steve?" Pierce waits for Steve's nod before continuing. "I'll be direct here: you don't seem naturally inclined to take orders. Five fraudulent attempts to enlist, that's not the mark of a man who plays by the rules." He dabs at his lips with his napkin. "No, that's a man who recognizes that doing what's right sometimes means _breaking_ the rules. Seeing the bigger picture. Even seventy years ago someone had enough of a brain to see that, and gave you your own unit instead of integrating you into regular army."

"You seem to know an awful lot about me, sir."

"I know it's not in your nature to blindly follow anyone. And I know you're smart enough to recognise that these days, even a field operative has to pull a few strings of their own sometimes." Pierce is watching him expectantly.

"I appreciate that, but I'm really not much of a diplomat."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I've seen the numbers from your USO tours." Pierce's lip twitches and Steve _knows_ he's flushing this time.

"I'm not sure people still go in for that kind of propaganda."

"Maybe we should put you in a pair of tights and find out?" Pierce is grinning at him now, teasing. "But in all seriousness: I want to know that you're being given every opportunity to do what you do best. If you ever run into trouble with the Greaveses of this business, I want you to know you can always come to me."

"I – thank you, sir. But I wouldn't want to waste your time."

"Nonsense. Making sure our assets are properly managed will never be a waste of my time." Pierce lays his knife and fork across his plate, then reaches behind himself to pull his wallet out of his suit jacket. "Here. My private number; I'm assuming I can trust you not to misuse it." He pulls out a business card, blank apart from a name and a number, and passes it across the table. Steve turns it over in his hands: the number is a D.C. cell. He slips it into his own pocket.

"Again, thank you. I appreciate the gesture."

"It's more than a gesture. I'm serious, Steve. You call me if you need me." Pierce checks his watch and then signals for the check; a raised eyebrow is enough to stop Steve in his tracks when he reaches for his own wallet. "I have to run, but feel free to stay and finish the wine – it'd be a shame for it to go to waste."

Pierce slides his chair back and Steve finds himself standing automatically; that gets him another of Pierce's lopsided grins. 

"Now those are the sort of manners you don't see enough of any more. It's been a pleasure, Steve. I'd like to do this again sometime."

Steve smiles back, offers his hand. "The pleasure's all mine, sir. I hope your meeting goes well."


	2. Chapter 2

Steve's life narrows down to a haze of training, briefings, ops and recovery. Working with STRIKE is becoming familiar, the routine almost comforting; it helps to know he's doing good in the world again.

As the weeks pass, all that really changes is a decrease in the direct oversight Fury has over STRIKE. Requests for personal reports from Steve become fewer and further between; he appreciates being trusted to get on with the job, but suspects that for the most part the Director is simply preoccupied with other projects.

So he's not all that surprised when word comes down that oversight of STRIKE is being transferred to Agent Victoria Hand.

Steve knows Hand only by reputation – a brilliant strategist, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s rising stars – and STRIKE's first mission under her command demonstrates that her reputation is well-deserved. Hand has a knack for responding to intel on the fly, keeping track of rapidly-shifting situations in the field, and Steve has always appreciated an officer who knows how to adapt.

He's less comfortable with her tendency for... well, _ruthlessness_ is really the only word for it. Fury was always uncompromising in his way, but Hand's cold pragmatism doesn't quite sit right in Steve's gut. That wouldn't be a problem in and of itself; he's made compromises to serve his country in the past, and knows he'll make more in the future. But from what he's overheard in snatches of conversation amongst his team, he gets the impression he's not the only one with misgivings.

He's more grateful than ever for Rumlow, who seems to have a sixth sense for what his men are thinking. More than once Steve's come across Rumlow having a quiet word with one of the guys, no doubt dealing with their concerns, and that seems to be keeping things under control. Steve eventually pushes aside the unease that prickles in the back of his mind. It's probably just teething problems. He knows it took a while for the team to adjust to having  _him_  in charge.

~

Then comes the mission outside Mariupol.

They're sprinting for evac, Steve bringing up the rear where he can keep an eye on everyone, when a bullet whips across Rollins' thigh. It doesn't look like it goes deep but Rollins collapses with a shout, weapon clattering away. Rumlow skids to a halt and turns around; he reaches Rollins a half second after Steve does.

"Captain Rogers. Agent Rumlow. You need to keep moving." Hand's voice cuts across the others on the channel.

"We've got an agent down. Rumlow and I have him." Rumlow's already tightening a CAT tourniquet around Rollins' thigh; the wound doesn't seem to be bleeding much but Rollins is clutching his leg and breathing through clenched teeth, clearly in too much pain to keep going on his own.

"Negative, Captain. Your extraction vehicle has wheels up in sixty seconds." Steve bites down on his knee-jerk response to that as Rumlow swears, already trying to drag Rollins to his feet. The quinjet waiting for them is still a good five hundred yards away.

"I just need an extra fifteen." Steve hands his shield to Rumlow and hauls Rollins over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Rollins gasps as Steve shifts his grip on the man's thighs, but then they're moving, Steve taking off at a sprint and Rumlow keeping pace to cover his back. Bullets whiz past them as Hand snaps over the comms to _leave him, Rogers_ , but they're closing the distance fast – and Steve can see Murphy at the controls of the quinjet. They won't be left behind.

He puts on a final burst of speed, leaping onto the boarding ramp and yelling _Go!_ the instant he hears Rumlow land beside him. Jackson grabs his arm as the quinjet lurches, then they're tearing into the sky, Hand still demanding a status update.

Steve rips his earpiece out, lays Rollins down as carefully as he can.

Vasquez is beside them in an instant, already pulling the emergency shears out of the quinjet's first aid supplies. Steve half-staggers a few steps away to give them space, then collapses against a bulkhead. His heart is still racing.

Someone puts a water bottle in his hand. He takes a long swig before looking up to find Rumlow crouched beside him.

"Thanks for that one, Cap." Rumlow's voice is barely loud enough to be heard over the engines. Steve nods, swallows. Takes a moment to catch his breath.

"You'd do the same for me."

Rumlow nods, then pauses. For a second Steve thinks he might say something more, but then he claps Steve on the shoulder and heads over to check on Rollins.

Steve leans his head back against cool metal and closes his eyes.

~

It's been weeks, maybe months since Steve has been summoned to report directly to Fury.

The man's office is as starkly utilitarian as always; the only difference this time is Victoria Hand, standing next to Fury's desk. Nothing about her posture betrays a hint of remorse. Steve greets her with as curt a _ma'am_ as he can get away with before turning to Fury.

"Sir, I –"

"I want you to tell me in your own words, Captain Rogers, exactly what happened en route to evacuation in Ukraine."

Steve squares his shoulders. "Agent Rollins was wounded. Agent Rumlow and I assisted him to the extraction vehicle."

"Is that all?"

"No, sir." Steve pauses, forces himself to unclench his fists. "Agent Hand ordered us to abandon Agent Rollins on the tarmac."

"And?"

"Sir – I was there on the ground. I made a judgement call to –"

"Captain." Fury doesn't need to raise his voice to cut Steve off dead. "Did you, or did you not disobey a direct order given to you by Agent Hand?"

"I did," Steve says, without hesitating. "I took it upon myself to ignore that order and save Agent Rollins' life."

"And what makes you think you had the authority to make that call?"

"I was the man on the ground, sir. I could see –"

"Could you see the two enemy jets closing on your position?" Hand speaks up for the first time, tone as casual as if she's reporting the goddamn weather. "Your lack of discipline could have cost us a quinjet – with the rest of your STRIKE team on board."

"All due respect, ma'am, but it didn't. I know my men, and I know what they're capable of. I trusted them to have my back. Just like they trust me to have theirs."

"And yet none of you were willing to trust your CO," Fury interrupts.

"Sir, I can't lead these men if they don't believe their CO trusts _them_ to get the job done."

"Then it's your job to _make_ them believe it." Fury stands, picking a file up off his desk. "Captain, these are trained agents, and they all knew the rules of the game they were getting into. There's a chain of command for a reason. Maybe you've just gotten a little too used to operating outside it."

Steve frowns. "Sir, I'm not trying to subvert –"

"To the men you command, it looked like that's exactly what you were doing. In future I expect you to obey any and every order given to you by Agent Hand. Without question. Without hesitation. Is that clear, _Captain_?"

Steve looks between them; Hand's face is as impassive as ever, and Fury's glower brooks no disagreement. He hesitates, but there's really only one answer he can give.

"Understood, sir."

~

He heads to the gym.

It's not that he's avoiding his problems. He's been doing a good job of getting back in the world, lately. But sometimes it's better for everyone if he works out his frustrations on a punching bag, gets his emotions under control so nobody else has to bear the brunt of them.

He doesn't keep track of time. He pounds on one bag until it bursts at the seams, hangs up another, and gets back into his rhythm. It's simple. It's familiar. It helps him stop his mind wandering.

He doesn't notice Rumlow's presence until the man speaks.

"Working off some frustration?" Rumlow is dressed in a tank top and sweatpants, duffel over his shoulder. Probably here for the same reason.

Steve sighs, puts a hand out to steady the bag. "I guess so. Tough week."

Rumlow chuckles, drops his duffel on the bench by the wall, then pulls out his handwraps and starts unwinding them. When it looks like he's not going to say anything more, Steve gets back to work.

But Rumlow doesn't approach the bags. Or any of the other equipment, for that matter. Out of the corner of his eye Steve watches as Rumlow just stands by the bench, idly turning his wraps over in his hands.

Finally he puts them down and walks over to Steve.

"You got a minute to talk, Cap?"

Steve stops, panting, and wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah, sure. What's up?"

"It's..." Rumlow pauses. "This thing with Rollins."

"I thought the docs said he'd be fine?" Steve searches Rumlow's face – last he heard Rollins was expected to make a full recovery, no permanent damage. If something's gone wrong then –

"Yeah, they – oh, no. Nothing like that. Recovery's still looking good."

Steve lets out a breath. "Okay. Glad to hear it." But Rumlow's clearly got something on his mind; he folds his arms, frowning down at the floor before lifting his chin to meet Steve's eyes.

"Look, the thing is – we all heard Agent Hand over the comms. Rollins may be a pain in the ass, but he's one of ours."

Steve hesitates. Rollins' reaction to that order is burned into his mind: an expression of dread and resignation that he's seen on far, far too many faces. But while voicing concerns to his superiors is one thing...

He swallows, can't quite meet Rumlow's eyes. "Agent Hand had access to intel that we didn't."

Rumlow raises a skeptical eyebrow. "And if you'd had access to that intel, would _you_ have made the same call?"

Steve looks away.

"That's what I thought." Rumlow steps forward, grips Steve's shoulder. "Look, Cap, the boys trust you because they know that trust goes both ways. Hand doesn't get that. And we can't lead this team if they don't believe their CO trusts them to get the job done."

Rumlow searches his face for a response. Steve bites his tongue; he can't very well disagree with his own damn words. He runs a hand through his hair.

"Look – I understand what you're saying, Rumlow. But I'm pretty sure this one's out of my hands."

Rumlow steps back, shaking his head. "You're right. That was out of line – I know you've got no more say in this than we do. It's just –" his gaze flicks away. "We can't work like this. And I know you see that too." He picks up his bag, slings it over his shoulder. "I'm gonna go check on Rollins. Poor bastard is bored out of his mind; you wouldn't believe the shit he's watching on TV.

Steve nods, only half paying attention.

Once Rumlow's out of the room he walks over to where he left his own bag. Slumps down on the bench.

Because that's really the truth of things, isn't it? He may be Captain America, but if there's one thing he learned from his USO days it's that there's a world of difference between fame and actual influence. For all that he's been paraded around press conferences since he was dug out of the arctic, nobody seems interested in Steve as a _person_ rather than an icon. He doesn't exactly have any friends in high places...

...with one possible exception.

Pierce did say Steve could come to him with anything. And he's one of the few people Fury actually answers to. If Steve asked... but going over Fury's head like that, undercutting the chain of command, wouldn't exactly _solve_ any trust issues.

On the other hand Pierce is, by all accounts, a diplomatic genius. Maybe Steve could just... ask for advice?

It's an absurd idea – _surely_ the man has more important things to do. But the worst he can say is no. The worst he can do is tell Steve he's wasting Pierce's time, that he needs to suck it up and act like the professional he's supposed to be. (And never bother Pierce again.)

Steve tries to ignore the way that idea tugs at his stomach. His pride's taken worse hits.

He digs in his duffel for his wallet, pulls Pierce's card out from behind his ID. Runs a thumb over the embossed letters.

It's probably too late to call now. Maybe at lunchtime tomorrow – presumably that's when Pierce is least likely to be busy. Plus that gives Steve plenty of time to figure out what he's actually going to say.

Or to think better of the whole idea.

He tucks the card back in his wallet and picks up his bag to head for the showers. At the very least, it's an option to consider.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve leaves his morning run later than usual. It's nice to get out when the early spring air has had time to warm up, even if it means taking a different route to avoid the tourists. He doesn't think he'll ever quite get used to the thrill of being able to just _run_ , lungs filling with fresh morning air even as his legs start to burn. The satisfying ache in his thighs grounds him in himself. Helps calm his mind as he sprints the last half-mile home.

By the time he's showered, changed, and put together a quick omelet, it's just after midday. He picks up his book for a while, tries not to look at the clock... then gives up when he finds himself re-reading the same page for the fourth time.

Grabbing a notepad and pencil, he crosses to his desk. Pierce's card is still in his wallet, slotted in behind his ID. He taps the number into his phone and hits call before he can let himself hesitate.

"Pierce." The terse response comes almost immediately, and Steve straightens in his seat.

"Sir, it's Steve – Steve Rogers. Have you got –"

"Steve!" Pierce's tone is instantly warmer. "Hang on, I've just stepped out of a meeting. Let me find somewhere I can talk."

"Sorry, sir, I was hoping to catch you when you were free. I can call back if –"

"Trust me, Steve, you're doing me a favor getting me out of there. And it's not like any of them would complain about me taking five minutes to talk to Captain America."

Steve can practically see the man's conspiratorial grin, finds himself relaxing into his chair and smiling back.

"If you say so. I wouldn't want to keep you from anything important."

"I've told you before, Steve, what's important to you is important to me. Unless you're just fishing for another lunch date."

"Um. No, sir – it's to do with STRIKE."

"Aah. Well that must be important if you've come to me instead of Agent Hand. What's bothering you?"

Steve winces, takes a moment to figure out where he should start. "It's kind of a sensitive situation. It might take more than a few minutes to explain."

"Hmm..." Pierce draws the sound out, and Steve can hear paper rustling on the other end of the line. "In that case how about I arrange some time after – no, damn. I'm booked up for the rest of the day. And I leave for Brussels in the morning."

"I understand. I can wait until –"

"No, no, I'm sure Miranda can work something out. Do you have anything on this afternoon?"

"No sir, I'm free for the rest of the day."

"Perfect. Give me a few minutes and we'll set something up." Pierce hangs up without waiting for a reply. Steve leans back in his chair, blinking at his phone.

Abashed, he realizes how naïve he must seem: you don't just call up a man like Alexander Pierce and assume he can drop everything to talk, no matter how special you think you are. Steve drums his fingers on the desk, already drafting an apology in his head.

After a few minutes of waiting he starts idly drawing to pass the time. When he realizes he's halfway through sketching a mouse running on a wheel, he snorts at how melodramatic he's being and pushes the pencil aside again.

When the phone finally does ring, it's a woman's voice on the line.

"Captain Rogers? This is Secretary Pierce's office."

"Yes ma'am, that's me."

"I'm calling to confirm your meeting at the Secretary's house, at nine o'clock this evening. Will you be requiring a car?"

"I'm sorry – nine p.m.?"

"That's correct, Captain. Will you be requiring a car?"

"No, I have a bike – are you sure Secretary Pierce is okay with this?"

"Captain, I've been asked to pass on a message and confirm your availability. Do you need me to forward you the Secretary's address?"

"Sure. Yes please. Actually I have paper, I can write it down now." Steve frowns, flipping over his notepad to copy down a Virginia address. "And you say he's expecting me?"

"At nine p.m. Will that be all, Captain?"

"Yes, thank you." Steve has barely finished speaking when the line goes dead.

Bemused more than anything else, he stares at his phone for a few seconds before pulling up a map to get an idea of where he'll need to go. He supposes he's committed now: he's got an ear to bend and he might as well make good use of it.

~

This late in the evening, traffic on the parkway along the Potomac isn't too bad. Steve follows the route he's memorized up into Virginia, neighborhoods growing visibly more affluent as he turns off into McLean. He passes by houses that would easily qualify as _mansions_ , counts off the numbers until he reaches Pierce's address.

Like the others in the area, Pierce's house is set well back from the street. It's all sleek modern lines and large windows, with most of the façade obscured by large, leafy oak trees lit softly from below. Most of the lights seem to be off as Steve walks up the path to the front door, running a self-conscious hand through his hair. Maybe he should have worn a tie.

It's three minutes to nine when he rings the doorbell – and so eerily quiet out here that he can actually hear the soft footsteps padding towards him from inside. A moment later Pierce himself pulls the door open.

"Steve! Sorry to drag you so far out of town." Light spills out from the doorway behind Pierce; he's drying his hands on a dishcloth, dressed in jeans and a light denim shirt. With his collar open and sleeves rolled up to his elbows he looks slimmer than he does in a suit, more approachable. Steve's glad he decided against the tie.

"It's no problem, sir. Thank you for making time to see me so late."

Pierce scoffs, tucking one end of the dishcloth into his waistband as he steps back to wave Steve inside. "It's ten a.m. in Tokyo; I'm not going to sleep any time soon. Come on, get inside before the neighbors see me consorting with Captain America and get jealous."

Pierce guides him through the door with a light touch to his lower back, then locks it behind them. The hallway Steve steps into has floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, overlooking a private courtyard of perfectly-trimmed shrubs. A short way along it opens out into a high-ceilinged, open plan lounge and kitchen: the lights come on as they cross the threshold to reveal black marble countertops and stark silver appliances on one side, sprawling couches in warm beige and gray tones on the other.

There's an actual, full-sized grand piano in the middle of the lounge.

"Do you play?" Steve asks before he can stop himself.

"Are you asking if I'm the kind of man who'd keep a twenty-thousand-dollar instrument around just for show?" Pierce raises an eyebrow, hands on his hips, but he's still smiling. "It was my daughter's. Says she doesn't have space for it in New York. I keep it around for when she visits, but mostly it's just me here now." Pierce shrugs, then walks over to the kitchen island, tugging the dishcloth loose to hang it over the faucet. "Go on and take a seat – I'll be right over."

Steve sits down at one end of the long sofa, and not long afterwards Pierce emerges from the kitchen with a decanter and a pair of tumblers. He walks around the glass coffee table to sit beside Steve, setting the tumblers down and pouring each of them a glass of amber liquid.

"So. Tell me about Mariupol."

Steve pauses. "You know about the op?"

Pierce picks up his glass, sits back and turns to Steve. "Captain America asks for my help, you think I'm not going to do my homework? I hear one of your men was hurt pretty bad."

Steve nods, looks away. "Rollins. But it's not – we all know what we're signing up for. We accept the risks." He forces himself to meet Pierce's eyes again. "They – _we're_ not happy with the way Agent Hand dealt with the situation."

"Hmm." Pierce holds his gaze, eyes bright even in the soft lighting, and Steve ploughs on.

"The way she does things – I'm not sure it's really working for my team." He takes a breath, remembers the way he planned to phrase this. "You told me that doing the right thing sometimes means breaking the rules. We're used to having a lot of autonomy in the field, to being trusted to do whatever's necessary. Hand's leadership style involves more direct oversight than we're used to. The team feels like they're not being trusted, and that's doing real damage to morale."

For a long moment Pierce says nothing; his expression might as well be a mask, for all Steve can read from it. Then he gives a brief nod, leans back against the sofa. Takes a sip of his drink.

"Now _that's_ a drink. You know much about bourbon, Steve?"

Steve frowns. "Not a lot, sir."

"This is one of my personal favorites. Go on, have a taste."

Steve leans forward to pick up the other tumbler. The light catches on the patterns etched into the crystal, and he remembers a grimy old bottle Bucky had liberated from a HYDRA double agent's office – remembers how Bucky had insisted on splitting the contents between their dented canteen cups.

When he sits back Pierce is looking sideways at him, his own glass resting on his thigh. Steve obediently takes a sip.

The bourbon bursts over his tongue, a succession of tantalizingly familiar flavors that are there and gone before he can identify any of them. The initial burn is sharp on his palate, then mellows to a tingling warmth as he swallows the drink down – he imagines he can feel it spreading rich and hot through his chest.

"I... wow. That's really something."

Pierce grins, laugh lines creasing around his eyes before he takes another sip from his own glass. "Worth every penny."

Steve sits back a little beside Pierce, takes another sip and tries to sort out the different flavors. There's a hint of something that might be... caramel? Or honey? But as he swallows it feels almost creamy. He's still caught up in the sensation when Pierce says, "So you want to get rid of Hand."

Steve manages not to choke his next sip down the wrong way. Barely. "I wouldn't say _get rid_ of her –"

"But that _is_ what you want." It isn't a question, but Pierce still waits for Steve to reply.

"I think we might work better under someone else."

Pierce drains the rest of his glass, leans forward to set it on the coffee table. "Done."

"I – just like that?"

Pierce turns to face Steve, rests his elbow on the back of the sofa, and he's got the same conspiratorial glint in his eye as the first time they met. "Just like that. Believe me, Steve, I've orchestrated far more complex coups than this."

"...within S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

For a moment Pierce's expression tightens. "Sometimes it's an unfortunate necessity. But don't worry – I'll make sure she ends up somewhere appropriate. I'm a big fan of win-win scenarios."

Steve smiles gratefully, looking away. "Thank you, sir. This sort of thing really isn't my forte."

"Nonsense." Pierce clasps Steve's knee, and his tone is completely earnest when he says, "You're more than just a soldier with a shield, Steve. Never forget that."

"Most of the time, it seems like that's all anyone wants from me." He turns his tumbler around in his hands, hopes his smile isn't too bitter.

"That's their mistake, not yours. It takes a truly extraordinary man to do the things you've done – and I'm not talking about physical strength. You're an inspiration to an awful lot of people, Steve."

Steve isn't sure what to say to that. He takes another sip of bourbon, lets it seep into his bones. Leaning back against the soft cushions with what must be an obscenely expensive drink in his hand, he's hit full force by that sense of unreality again.

Pierce gives his knee a gentle squeeze.

"Still with me, Steve?"

Steve lets out a long breath, turns to face Pierce. There's a hint of concern in his expression now, bright blue eyes searching Steve's face.

"Yeah." Steve nods, and Pierce squeezes his knee again with a soft smile.

"I was eight years old when you brought down the Valkyrie, and what was left of HYDRA. I grew up believing the world had lost one of its greatest heroes. So much has changed since then – but here you are, still doing whatever it takes. To protect the world, or just the men under your command."

They're words Steve has heard before, of course. From politicians, media, fans – he's so used to responding with the usual thanks that he could probably do it in his sleep. But coming from Pierce...

"Sir, I've spent less than four years helping fight wars. You've spent your whole life dedicated to peace."

Pierce is shaking his head even before Steve finishes talking. "We both know those are two sides of the same coin. Part of making peace is _always_ about preparing for war. And giving orders to kill makes me no less guilty than the men on the front lines with actual blood on their hands." He clasps Steve's shoulder with his free hand, waits until Steve meets his eyes. "We do what we have to, for what we hope are the right reasons. That's what makes a good man. I've met an awful lot of men in my time, Steve, and very few of them would ever come close to you."

Steve swallows, feeling his cheeks heat up. It's something about the tone of Pierce's voice – or maybe just the intimacy of the situation. Exchanging superficial platitudes as Captain America is one thing, but sitting in Pierce's home, with Pierce speaking in that soft earnest tone, is entirely different. _Feels_ entirely different. Warms him right through, sets his heart racing like he's –

He tenses all over when he realizes he's half-hard.

"Steve?" Pierce's voice seems distant over Steve's sudden panic. "Is everything alright?"

He fumbles for an excuse, something to deflect Pierce's concern – but Pierce's hands are still warm on his shoulder and thigh, and thinking about _Pierce's hands_ is really not helping. Steve knows he must be blushing all over, opens his mouth to ask where the bathroom is or _something_ but before he can say a word Pierce lets out a quiet _oh_.

Steve wants to sink right through the sofa. If he was blushing before he must be red as a beet now. He starts to get up, puts his glass down on the table – but Pierce's hand is suddenly firm on his thigh, guiding him back down.

"Sir, I..."

Pierce's hand shifts on his thigh and Steve sucks in a breath. Closes his eyes, bracing himself for – for what, he doesn't know – and when the weight of that hand disappears Steve isn't sure whether he feels relieved or bereft.

A soft touch against his chin makes him flinch. Pierce gently turns his head until they're facing each other, waits for Steve to meet his eyes.

"You really are incredible, Steve." Pierce's voice is barely a murmur; it reminds Steve of the deep warmth of the bourbon spreading under his ribs. He lets out a shaky breath. Doesn't trust himself to speak.

The fingertips at Steve's chin slide along his jaw, under his ear, down the line of his jugular. Steve shivers and closes his eyes again. Clenches his hands into fists beside his legs as he feels Pierce's touch drift lower still, until there's a fingertip slipping down behind the first button of his shirt.

A twist of Pierce's fingers, and the button slips loose.

"I should –"

"Shh. You don't have to do anything, Steve. Just stay right there for me."

Pierce moves down to the next button, his other hand sliding along Steve's shoulder, fingers stroking up towards his nape. Steve keeps his eyes closed and fights to keep his breathing steady as Pierce works his way down his shirt, slipping each button free, finally tugging the shirt out of Steve's slacks to get to the last one. Then he presses a warm, broad palm flat against Steve's stomach.

Steve gasps. " _Sir_ –"

"Look at you." When Steve manages to force his eyes open Pierce is watching his own hand slide up Steve's chest, pushing his shirt aside. "Just gorgeous."

Steve swallows as Pierce traces the lines of his chest, rising and falling as Steve's breath comes faster and shallower. A thumb brushes over his nipple and Steve jerks – Pierce does it again, and again, and Steve tenses his entire chest and arms with the effort of holding still.

"That's it. Just keep still for me, just like that."

Steve bites down hard on his lip. When Pierce tugs at the button of Steve's fly the shifting fabric makes him gasp again, but he keeps his fists clenched beside his thighs.

"Perfect," Pierce whispers, and his voice makes Steve even more light-headed than the hand working open his fly. He gives up on watching entirely, lets his head drop back against the sofa and pants for breath. Pierce slides his hand from behind Steve's neck, uses both hands to tug Steve's slacks a little further down his hips and then – _oh_ – there's a hand cupping him firmly through his briefs and the heat of it is _indescribable_.

A thousand fantasies come rushing back all at once, fantasies where the hands he imagined on him were rougher, firmer than any woman's. Pierce's hands are too soft to have ever known manual labor but there's no hesitation at all in the way he slips one into Steve's briefs, wraps it around his bare cock. Steve's knuckles ache as Pierce strokes him slow and smooth and whispers, "That's it, that's perfect, Steve, _you're_ perfect –"

Steve's whole body jerks as he comes.

Pierce strokes him through it, keeps whispering in his ear until Steve is so spent he's shaking. When Pierce finally takes his hand away the cool air makes Steve's skin prickle. He pries his eyes open and looks up at the ceiling. Swallows hard.

_Did that really just happen?_

The warm, sated feeling lasts all of four seconds before reality starts to creep back in. He just – _Pierce_ just – Steve is suddenly very, very conscious of the sticky mess cooling on the front of his pants. He swallows again, forces himself to sit up and turn to meet Pierce's eyes.

He's smiling.

"You looked like you needed a moment there." And it's the same lopsided smile as always, warm with just a hint of an indulgent smirk. Steve manages a shaky laugh.

"Maybe more than one."

Pierce chuckles as he stands up. "You got it. Wait right there, I'll get something to clean up."

Pierce disappears down the hall. The living room suddenly feels very big, and very quiet. Steve rests his hands self-consciously over his lap, steadying his breathing.

That definitely just happened. Steve bites his lip and tries not to think too hard about the details. About Pierce's long fingers, or bare forearms, or the fit of his jeans over his hips and thighs. Steve's cheeks are still burning when Pierce comes back with a roll of toilet paper; he wipes himself down as best he can, shifts in his seat to tug his slacks back up, all while carefully avoiding looking up to where Pierce's waistline is at his eye level.

But there's only so long he can draw it out before wondering _what happens next?_ Unsure of what to do with the used paper, he crumples it into a ball and forces himself to look up at Pierce. At Pierce's _face_.

Works up the nerve to ask, "Do you want... is there something I can..."

Pierce frowns. Steve can feel the blush returning to his cheeks as tries to find the right words – but a moment later Pierce clearly figures it out, shakes his head with a sardonic smile. "At my age, after a few drinks? We'd both be wasting our time." He sets down the roll of toilet paper, moves the empty glasses aside to sit on the edge of the coffee table.

"Besides, it's getting late, and I've got a flight to catch." Pierce reaches out to touch the back of Steve's hand, smiles again when Steve looks up. "Please Steve, I don't want you to feel like you owe me anything."

Steve nods, lets out another long breath, and manages to smile back. "Okay. If you say so."

Pierce pats the back of Steve's hand before standing up, stepping aside to give Steve space to get to his feet. For a moment it's almost unnerving to be looking down at Pierce from their height difference again.

"Do you need me to show you the way back to the door?"

 _Just like that?_ Steve hesitates – he's not at all sure this is how it's supposed to go, but there's no sign Pierce is upset or offended. "No thank you, sir – I can let myself out."

"Alright then." Pierce holds out his hand, and as Steve shakes it he feels acutely aware of how warm and solid it is. "And don't worry about Hand. We'll find another space on the chessboard for her." Hand. Right. Victoria. _Focus, Rogers_.

"Thank you again, sir. I hope your trip goes well."

"To Brussels? About the best I can hope for is not being bored to sleep by all the policy wonks. But we'll see. Goodnight, Steve."

"Goodnight."

~

The ride home is a blur – Steve feels slightly dazed, mind and emotions one big uncertain jumble. But underpinning everything else are the sense memories of Pierce's hands on his skin, Pierce's words in his ear.

He dreams of being younger, smaller – and of a different voice entirely reassuring him that he's _perfect, just like that, don't let anyone ever tell you different_.


End file.
